


Accentuating.

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Curtain Fic, Dark, Hell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-12
Updated: 2010-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Alastair shop for curtains. In Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accentuating.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondplatypus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=secondplatypus).



Alastair tilted his head and hummed pensively, examining the soul stretched out before him. It writhed, and wailed — and he didn't even have to touch it all that much. Rather than expend the effort, he held up his razor and pressed it against the skin — in Hell, merely a barrier between Alastair and the soul's deeper secrets — not making any incisions yet, but instead, tilting it, using it as a mirror to really examine the caliber of soul presently on his rack. This one didn't belong in Hell, not really: he had strong stuff in him, and responsibility for his presence here fell on the fact that, just before dying, he'd committed adultery _once_.

"Dean," he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his most accomplished student, "tell me, and be honest: what do you think about getting Kenyans for the living room?"

As he picked up a bone-saw from the table, something dark and increasingly familiar flashed across Dean's face — he frowned, his nostrils flared, and, though they hadn't yet gone black entirely, his eyes darkened. He stalked up to the soul in cold, confident strides — lupine, with his shoulders hunched and a hungry glint to his expression, tossing his blade up and catching it before it hit the ground — Alastair stepped back and smiled. Since taking Dean off the rack, one of the job's greatest pleasures had become watching him work, seeing the ragged rise and fall of his back as he worked out all his angsty little nonsense on the denizens of Hell. This soul looked up at him, wide-eyed and started screaming in its native tongue from Earth: _But wait — what are you doing — you're not a demon, you're not like him — what are you DOING…_

Dean said nothing back; he only made the screaming wordless by slicing off a swatch of skin from the soul's collarbone to its pelvis. He moved his blade through that flesh as if through thin air, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when the soul tried to wriggle under his guidance and when the blood splattered in his face. Moving back a step, he examined his handiwork — the hard, passionate point of entry; the shredded skin where the blade made its exit; the inner machinations he exposed and laid bare — deep love for wife and children where this soul's heart had been in life, loyalty to friends in place of the liver, all throughout a certain refusal to believe nothing but the best in people, even in the face of overwhelming evidence. Alastair smiled, nibbling on his lower lip as he watched Dean work — and his grin broadened as Dean turned away from his efforts and came back toward his teacher. He held the blade out flat before him, carrying the skin atop it.

Just before getting the saw too close to Alastair, Dean paused. His brow was knotted, his sigh contemplative. "Well, I mean… the dark color works there, sure, but look at the tattoos. If it was up to me, I'd rather see Maori than Maasai in the living room — and anyway, why are we looking _here_?" Alastair arched an eyebrow. "…Look, I'm just saying: the lustful are fine, but they're like building a pyramid out of beer cans. And that's not what your place is like. …What about getting something from the heretics? They'd really make the room pop. And like I said: you don't live in some fucking frat—"

Placing one long finger over Dean's lips, Alastair shushed him. "Dean," he whispered. "Dean, Dean, _Dean_ … It's _our_ place now, remember?"

Dean shrunk back as Alastair lowered his finger — he shivered, feeling the chill down to his best memories of Sam, their mother, and their father, right in the spaces where he'd once had lungs — and he froze when Alastair's mouth collided with his own. All the times this had happened before, it had happened quite like this: Alastair had kissed Dean deeply, hungrily, gnawing into his lips until they leaked blood and probing around with his tongue, getting down into Dean's throat and finding everything from the uselessness he'd felt after all the times his father yelled at him to how much he'd liked wearing Rhonda Hurley's pink satin panties. Alastair had learned so many things from kissing Dean, and from pawing at his crotch, and from throwing him down on the bed and taking him — even now, Dean reciprocated the kiss. Slowly, mechanically, he moved his lips against Alastair's, leaned into the hand that cupped his jaw, because he would suffer either way and this was easier than saying, "no."

But not for much longer tonight.

Dropping his blade, Dean shoved Alastair to the floor. He'd learned well from the times this had happened to him: Dean let himself fall onto Alastair's hips and pinned him by the shoulders. Green eyes burning, he hovered above Alastair — and his arms quivered when the demon only grinned and said, "You really are my best student, Dean." In the brief moment when Dean's hold was the weakest, Alastair jerked around, flipping Dean onto his back. Smirking, he laid out atop Dean's chest, wrapped his bony hand around Dean's cock. Leaning down to Dean's mouth, he whispered, "And still, you have _so_ much to learn."

Dean sighed, and groaned as Alastair's freezing finger trailed down his cheek. Acquiescent, he muttered, "Why don't we check out the suicides next?"


End file.
